My Mate Stan
"I think I'd like to be a tree"
said Stanley Baxter next to me.
"Not yet, but one day, if I could.
I think that would be rather good.
I'd sway in breezes, talk to birds,
rustling, no need for words.”
"But what about the things you'd miss?"
I said, when he had said all this.
"Well yes, I'd miss my friends like you,
but you could come and see the view
from the top of me, Stan Tree.
You could see the sea from me!"
He grinned, his mind was dreaming still
of being a tree sat on the hill.
"I'm not convinced it's a good plan,
for you to be a tree, our Stan."
"Why not?" he said. "It would be cool!
No more teachers, no more school.
No room to tidy, bed to make.
No more daft exams to take.
No more stupid clothes to wear,
just me outside in the fresh air.
"Yes, that's true, but I'm not sure
that everything in life's a bore.”
I paused as pudding had just come,
delivered by his smiling mum.
"Are you sure you want to be a tree?
Trees don't get pudding with their tea."
Stan was silent for a while,
a spoon was raised, contented smile.
"I do like pudding, that is true.
I like lunch and breakfast too.
And now that I have thought some more,
I have become entirely sure
that if trees don't eat it's not for me.
I'll stay a boy, not be a tree.
YOU ARE READING
The Tree of Dreams
PoetryRandom poetry and the occasional drabble or dribble of other short random thought from the depths my somewhat bemused brain, or possibly Brian if the schizophrenic misspelt pseudo entity that lives up there is up to his old tricks... poems from the...
